Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (13 page)

‘There were also moments of relative excitement like when workmen came to erect a shelter and light in... 1973 I think, and when an advertising station was put up about a year later. After that I had the pleasure of watching the advertisement posters being changed at regular intervals and it allowed me to keep in touch with things in some small way.

‘I noticed that I was getting older but, since otherwise time was suspended for me, I learnt just to relax and observe, which is something few other people have the opportunity to do in this world. In time, you see, all Binscombe life passed by my bus stop.’

‘You make it sound almost idyllic!’

‘No, it wasn’t that for I was held against my will, remember, and that fact coloured everything else. And, if the creature even suspected that I was taking pleasure in something, it would talk to me.’

‘What about?’

‘It is best, believe me, for your sake that you don’t know. Suffice to say that he said bitter and twisted things, of individuals queuing for a bus, for instance, that showed people in a low and degraded light or emphasised the misery and futility of human life as he saw it. His words were designed to produce an effect in me. Whether they also represented the truth or not I’ve no idea.’

‘How did it end?’

‘As simply as it began. One day a bus arrived as per normal and the creature said, “Here is your bus.” Suddenly I found that I could move and I saw that the driver’s eyes were focused on me. He could actually see me!  Despite forty years disuse my legs could still carry me as if I’d merely had a short sit-down and, as you might expect, I was on that bus like a streak of lightning. Then, just as the doors closed behind me, I heard the creature say, ‘Thank you for waiting with me.’ The doors slid shut, and when I turned round to look I couldn’t see the thing, even though the last words it’d said were still ringing in my ears. Then the bus pulled away.

That wasn’t the end of all my problems by any means. In effect, one major affliction was replaced with myriad minor ones. You can’t just leave your life for forty years and expect to take up the reins again on your return. Difficulties began from the moment I boarded that long delayed bus. Take for instance the problem with paying my fare. I’d missed out on decimal currency, you see. I knew nothing about it and the driver wouldn’t accept the coins I offered him. He thought I was either drunk or a joker when I handed him three old pennies. When he told me how much the fare really was, it was my turn to think that it was he who was joking—inflation being another thing I’d yet to learn about.

‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, my mother’s house had been sold many years before. I’d paid no National Insurance so there was no pension awaiting me. Most of my old friends were dead or gone away, and all in all I had to start from scratch.

‘In time, of course, everything came together. I found a place to live, I caught up on forty years of world history in the public library, I even got married and God knows (begging your pardon Disvan) she’s been a solace, bless ‘er. So here I am. My life’s not so bad, but I’ve got a lot of catching up to do and that’s why I’ve no intention of ever being made to wait for a bus again.’

‘Do you think then that the creature is still there?’

‘I don’t know. I just assume it is and act accordingly. You see, I’ve been free for a number of years now and for all I know the thing may be getting lonely and in need of company again, so I’m not inclined to put the matter to the test.’

‘I get it. So that’s why you won’t pass the bus stop on your own.’

‘Exactly.’ He paused, something clearly bothering him, and then continued in a rush of words. ‘Tell me, Mr Oakley, do you believe that what I’ve told you is true?’

I considered the possibility of this while studying Springer’s guileless, indeed vacant, face and found that an honest answer came to me easily.

‘I’ve only lived here a short time, but long enough not to totally discount what you say.’

‘That is a good answer—if slightly enigmatic,’ said Disvan.

‘Mr Disvan believes me, don’t you?’

‘I do, Bob. I accept what you tell us. But what I don’t accept, as I’ve said to you many times before, is that you’re in any further danger. You’ve done your stint of waiting and your company is no longer required.’

‘Fine words, but I’ll not believe them till I’m safely in my grave.’

‘As you wish.’

I felt some need to make amends for my earlier incivility and in debt to Springer for his candidness.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I—or perhaps we...’ Disvan nodded in affirmation, ‘would be happy on this occasion to provide an escort to your house.’

The old man thanked us gravely.

‘I’ll not impose on your good nature with any regularity but tonight I would welcome a short walk home and human company on the way. I’m obliged to you.’

*  *  *

And, at closing time, an escort and human company we duly provided. As we passed the bus shelter of which we had spoken all evening Springer once again asked that we avert our eyes and quicken the pace, and this time I did so with good grace although not before noticing that the stop was devoid of any life I could see.

Once we were past this lonely spot we slowed to a normal walk again and I felt able to ask the one question—the one question, at least, that seemed capable of any resolution—that still puzzled me.

‘Bob, why do you think you were chosen?’

‘In what way?’

‘I mean chosen out of all the people who ever waited at that stop. Why did the creature select you in particular to keep it company?’

‘I honestly don’t know. It was just written, I suppose.’

‘I think that’s true,’ interposed Disvan, ‘but not to the extent that it was just a random act of fate. I think, if you’ll please excuse me saying so, Bob, that you never were a man marked out for great deeds or an eventful life. It was written very plainly on your face even when I knew you as a boy.’

‘That may be so.’

‘And being such a very unexceptional, ordinary man made you ideal material if someone was to be snatched from life for forty years. It may be that the powers that rule us would only sanction such an event if the disruption to the normal world was minimal, as it was in your case.’

‘True—cruel, mind you—but quite possibly true. I had no career worth speaking of, few friends to miss me, and mother was all the family I’d got.’

‘There you are, then.’

Disvan’s last comment could either be taken as rounding off the successful presentation of his case or as the announcement of Springer’s safe arrival home, for we were indeed before his door.

Lost in private thoughts the old man let himself in and almost forgot, in his preoccupation, to bid us farewell. Just as the door was about to shut, he came to and said, ‘Thank you gentlemen for your patience. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ we replied in kind and immediately set off home as if eager to be free of his company—although I, at least, was not.

‘I’ll make a minor detour and walk with you part of the way,’ said Mr Disvan.

‘That would be welcome,’ I said and we walked along in silence until once again we drew close to the yellow-lit, deserted bus shelter. As though by prior consent we halted opposite it, looking perhaps for tokens to confirm Springer’s story. In its present condition the shelter looked the very epitome of lifeless anticipation.

At length I finally broke the silence. ‘Do you believe him?’

‘Well, he certainly did disappear for forty years.’

‘But do you believe him?’

‘Yes I do.’

‘And would you wait for a bus at that stop?’

‘I rarely would have occasion to, but the straight answer is no, I wouldn’t.’

‘Then how can you be so sure that Mr Springer isn’t in danger?’

Disvan paused, exhaling air and sadness through his teeth.

‘Partly because he’s done his turn but mainly because soon after he arrived back in Binscombe, ten years ago now, young Mark Brown went missing. He often travelled by bus, you see, and he was most certainly a very unremarkable chap.

‘No, Mr Oakley, I don’t think there’s anything for us to fear over there at the moment because, as the saying goes, two’s company—but three’s a crowd.’

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME

The sight of a stranger in the Duke of Argyll was always of interest, because of its mild rarity value, and to see an unaccompanied young lady was doubly so. Accordingly, I was both surprised and intrigued, on approaching the premises one summer’s evening, to spy Mr Disvan sitting in the pub garden deep in conversation with an attractive woman whose face was unknown to me. I hesitated to intrude upon them and so continued on into the bar.

‘You’re late,’ said the landlord in a mock chiding voice.

‘Possibly,’ I replied, ‘it being our busy time of year, I had to work on beyond normal hours.’

‘I see,’ said the landlord who never bothered to hide his lack of interest or indeed belief in anything that happened beyond the boundaries of Binscombe.

I decided to turn the conversation so as to satisfy my curiosity and to engage the landlord’s attention all in one.

‘Who’s Mr Disvan talking to out in the pub garden?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think she’s one of the Diggers.’

‘Diggers?’

‘He means the archaeologists,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘They’re excavating up on top of Binscombe ridge, near Mellersh Farm.’

‘There was something about it in the
Advertiser
,’ said the landlord.

‘Ah, is that it. For a while I thought it might be his long lost daughter or even a girlfriend!’

My comment, intended to be humorous, fell horribly flat. Nobody laughed or smiled or had anything to say at all. They all looked away and acted for a moment as if I was not there. Having obviously breached local etiquette, I thought it best to temporarily remove myself from the scene.

‘Do you think they would mind if I joined them?’

‘Course not,’ said the landlord, ‘there’s nothing going on between them, is there?’

‘No. Well, I think I’ll take my drink outside and see you all later.’

‘Suit yourself.’

I left the bar with the unpleasant sensation, whether true or false I could not say, of having several sets of eyes trained upon my retreating back. The silence was maintained until I had passed through the door and then I heard the low hum of conversation start up again.

I shrugged off the feeling of unease that the incident had produced in me. Such solecisms were fairly frequent and hard to avoid in Binscombe’s complex tribal set-up, even for people such as I, who had lived there for years. Their occurrence just had to be accepted and, since forgiveness was always swift, time spent worrying about them was time wasted.

I walked across the rear car park where, some time ago now, Trevor Jones’s car had been exorcised, and passed through the wicker gate into the Beer Garden. Although it was a warm evening without a hint of a breeze, Mr Disvan and his companion were the only people out enjoying their drinks in the dying sunshine, and all the other tables still had their chairs stacked upon them. My approach was eventually noticed and the two turned to study the newcomer. Mr Disvan, of course, instantly recognised me but the woman took no notice of this and continued to appraise me with a very cool, self-assured gaze. I recognised the technique from long sad years of London social warfare and so returned her look with equal candour. She was in her early thirties (or possibly late twenties with premature wear) and, although no attempt was made to emphasise the fact, she was, as I had earlier spotted, definitely attractive in a challenging sort of way. She wore a bib and braces outfit with a cheerful red scarf wound into her hair, and a pint of dark beer stood before her on the garden table.

‘Ah, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, ‘glad to see you. Bit late, aren’t you?’

‘I had to work.’

‘Busy time of year in your business, I expect.’

‘That’s right, it is actually. How did you know?’

‘Commonsense.’

‘I see. Anyway, leaving that all aside, I wonder if you’d mind if I joined you? I’ve said the wrong thing again in there.’

‘Mind? No, I insist.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mr Oakley, I’d like you to meet Elaine, she’s one of the archaeologists working up on the ridge.’

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Elaine. How’s the work developing?’

‘Handsomely, thank you—and please call me Ellie, I much prefer it.’

‘Okay.’

‘What’s wrong with Elaine?’ asked Mr Disvan curiously.

‘I don’t know. I’m just not at ease with it so I use an alternative.’

‘How strange. There’s no bad connotations to it that I’m aware of. It’s an old French version of the Greek name Helen—very ancient as you know. There’s also Arthurian links to it via Tennyson and Mallory—“Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat” who had “that love which was her doom’”. A lovely old story.’

‘Very nice, I’m sure, but I still prefer Ellie.’

‘Ellie thinks,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘that they’ve uncovered, if you’ll excuse the pun, good evidence for continuity of use between the Iron Age and Romano-British cemeteries up there.’

‘Really? What about the barrow, though?’

‘Ah, well that’s the most interesting part of all, isn’t it, Ellie?

The lady in question was looking at us with open approval.

‘You know, you people round here are really amazing. I’ve been digging all over, and everywhere else I’ve been all the locals want to know is if we’ve found any gold or skeletons—skeletons or gold every time. Here, though, people ask me about evidence for continuity of settlement, about cemetery lay-out and burial practises—all the sort of stuff only us professionals are supposed to be interested in. What is it about Binscombe people?’

‘We’re very keen on knowing about our past here, Ellie.’

‘And if we’re not to start with, then Mr Disvan makes sure that we are sooner or later. It was him who told me about the cemeteries up on the ridge—I wouldn’t have known about them otherwise. With the best will in the world, there’s just not the time to read up old archaeological reports and such like, so we rely on Mr Disvan here to be our fountain of knowledge.’

‘Even so, it’s pretty unusual to find an archaeologically educated public—and very gratifying.’

‘Why should you care?’ I said.

‘Else what’s the point of what we’re all doing?  Why go on excavating and producing reports if the society they’re intended for doesn’t give a damn?’

‘You could say the same about anything that’s not strictly practical.’

Ellie reached for her packet of cigarettes and lit one.

‘Yeah, that’s true. I’m overstating the case. Anyway, I’d still be an archaeologist even if I was the only one in the world who was the least bit interested. It’s just nice sometimes to know that a few people out there other than dried up old university professors would like to hear what we’ve found out.’

‘You haven’t told Mr Oakley about the barrow yet, Ellie.’

‘No, sorry—I was side-tracked and got onto my soap-box. It’s a failing of mine. Well, Mr Oakley, I presume then that you know about the Bronze Age barrow near the cemetery sites.’

‘Yes, it’s still quite prominent in the landscape.’

‘That’s because the land it’s on is useless for agriculture, and so the barrow escaped the attentions of the plough.’

‘Presumably.’

‘Definitely. Well, the barrow’s pretty typical Late Bronze Age and we didn’t expect it to reveal anything because—well, doubtless Mr Disvan has told you about the 1890 attack on it...’

‘No, he hasn’t actually.’

‘No? Oh well, in line with the practices of the time, the Binscombe Barrow was one of about a dozen ransacked in the course of a summer’s day by an Antiquarian Society from Hampstead. Their hired workmen simply dug a trench straight down through it whilst the members stood around and watched or ate a picnic. It was a common thing in those days—a pleasant day’s pillaging for the educated well-to-do.’

‘Did they find anything?’

‘We don’t know. As per normal, the expedition wasn’t written up other than a very brief paragraph in
The Gentleman’s Magazine
. If there was a burial or cremation burial in there, they must have taken the bones and/or pot, and God knows where they could be nowadays. All they left for posterity was a great backfilled hole.’

‘That must be frustrating for you.’

‘You get used to it. Future generations of archaeologists will probably feel the same about our efforts. Anyway, the point is that we’ve found that the barrow was re-used long after its creation and that there’s a Roman double burial in one side—something the Victorian vandals missed.’

‘And that’s unusual is it?’

‘Not desperately, but taken in conjunction with the Iron Age/Roman continuity in the main cemeteries, the whole site’s quite a find.’

‘I’m gratified to hear that,’ said Mr Disvan, ‘but where are the rest of your excavators?’

‘They’re mostly MSC, sorry, Manpower Services Commission, people or day volunteers, so they’re not around in the evening. There’s three other people from the university with me but... well, they’ve got other interests than coming down to meet the villagers.’

‘And where do you fit into the group, Ellie?’ I asked.

‘Director, whip-cracker and sometime cook—which reminds me, I ought to be heading back to see what’s on food-wise. Besides which I’ve got a lot of writing up to do.’

‘Perhaps we could offer you a lift,’ said Disvan. ‘It’s a tidy old trek up through the roads to the ridge. Twenty minutes walk for anyone.’

Ellie seemed very pleased to receive this offer. ‘Ordinarily I wouldn’t like to impose but...’

‘Mr Oakley, your car is here, isn’t it? You can drive us there can’t you?’

I had a mere second in which to assert myself and resist this press-ganging before my hesitation would be detected and my churlishness revealed. As always the second passed and, long hard day and thirst notwithstanding, I agreed.

‘That’s very kind of you’ she said.

‘Not at all.’

I finished my drink, and a few minutes later we were driving through the centre of the Binscombe Estate out towards the wilder agricultural and wooded area that surrounded it. The path to the ridge was a mere sunken mud track off a minor road but was nominally negotiable to motor vehicles, although in parts perilously narrow and beset by trees. As I struggled with the problems it posed and pondered on the mud and scratches my car was accumulating, I heard Mr Disvan and Ellie chatting learnedly about the dig, the site, and its place within the lost past of Binscombe. Even at the best of times I would have had little to contribute to such a conversation and so, in between desperate hauling at the wheel and the piling on of gas or brake, I was content merely to listen in to snippets of their talk.

At length the car gamely took a very steep rise, at the top of which was a closed five-bar gate. Not far beyond, in a circle cleared of the bracken which grew all about, could be seen four or five tents, a large prefabricated wooden hut, and a patchwork of excavated areas. Above them, on the very apex of the ridge, loomed the dark elongated shape of the barrow. Plainly we had arrived. Ellie suddenly fell silent and there was a slight period of hesitation before she said, ‘I’ll just go and open the gate, then.’

‘Okay, your door is unlocked.’

‘Fine—right then.’

She left the car and sprinted over to the gate. The rope loop which held it shut took a time to disengage, and while she struggled with it she cast numerous glances into the thick mass of trees and bracken which came up close to the path on either side. Once it was free she hurried the gate forward and waved us on. Within a few seconds of me clearing the gap she had closed and fastened the gate and was in the car again.